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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
209
In
the
Third
Movement
comes
the
crash
by
which
I
know
something
final
and
dreadful
has
happened.
Then
the
resurrection
with
commotion
in
Heaven:
tempests
and
human
faces,
scurryings
to
and
fro,
brazen
portcullises
clanging
to,
never
to
open
more,
the
distant
roll
of
drums
and
the
sound
of
horses'
hoofs.
From
behind
the
inmost
veil
of
Heaven
I
faintly
catch
the
huzzas
of
a
great
multitude.
Then
comes
a
great
healing
wind,
then
a
few
ghost-like
tappings
on
the
window
pane
till
gradually
the
Avenue
of
Arches
into
Heaven
come
into
view
with
a
solemn
cortege
advancing
slowly
along.
Above
the
great
groundswell
of
woe,
Hope
is
restored
and
the
Unknown
Hero
enters
with
all
pomp
into
his
Kingdom,
etc.,
etc.
I
am
not
surprised
to
learn
that
Beethoven
was
once
on
the
verge
of
suicide.
April
15.
There
is
an
absurd
fellow
...
who
insists
on
taking
my
pirouettes
seriously.
I
say
irresponsibly,
"All
men
are
liars,"
and
he
replies
with
jejuneness
and
exactitude
of
a
pronouncing
dictionary,
"A
liar
is
one
who
makes
a
false
statement
with
intent
to
deceive."
What
can
I
do
with
him?
"Did
I
ever
meet
a
lady,"
he
asked,
"who
wasn't
afraid
of
mice?"
"I
don't
know,"
I
told
him,
"I
never
experiment
with
ladies
in
that
way."
He
hates
me.
May
11.
This
mysterious
world
makes
me
chilly.
It
is
chilly
to
be
alive
among
ghosts
in
a
nightmare
of
calamity.
This
Titanic
war
reduces
me
to
the
size
and
importance
of
a
debilitated
housefly.
So
what
is
a
poor
egotist
to
do?
To
be
a
common
soldier
is
to
become
a
pawn
in
the
game
between
ambitious
dynasts
and
their
ambitious
marshals.
You
lose
all
individuality,
you
become
a
"bayonet"
or
a
"machine
gun,"
or
"cannon
fodder,"
or
"fighting
material."
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